


Drain Me

by Dracones95



Category: BioShock
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Mental Coercion, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Slurs, Smoking, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracones95/pseuds/Dracones95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fontaine captures Jack after Tenenbaum undoes his mental conditioning, and the process of regaining his loyal pawn doesn't go smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drain Me

"I'm starting to think you're doing all of this just to piss me off." He said slowly, taking a long drag from his cigarette and leaning back into the comfortable chair in front of his old desk. The boy was seated across the room, eyes trained on the security bot buzzing behind Fontaine's head; he could see even from there the tense curve of his spine, and the way he sat on the chair, as if he could bolt towards the door at any moment. He left him unrestrained on purpose; if he dared make one single move towards the exit, the bot would fry him, but as much as he would love to see that pain in the ass roast slowly in front of him, he needed him alive. And more importantly, he needed him obedient.

He licked his lips and leaned forward, hard into the wooden surface, which creaked under his weight. He watched the boy's eyes dart from the bot to his left, towards the closet where he had thrown all of his weapons after he had caught him, then back to the bot. He could see the gears turning in his head, searching frantically for a solution, a way out of this mess. 

He hadn't spoken a word since Fontaine had forcefully dragged him to his office and programmed the bot to watch his every move, a few hours ago; and it was starting to annoy the older man. He thought it would be easier to bring him back to his earlier state, a lap dog he could toss around the way he liked. He hoped that Suchong had done a better job, or at least that Mother Goose hadn't managed to sever the connection completely; the filthy Kraut had done a number on him, however, and Suchong was dead, pinned to a table in his own clinic, and couldn't fix this anymore. He had to do it on his own. Of course.

"Well, you know what they say," he continued his thoughts out loud; the boy didn't acknowledge him, still fixated on the propeller of the machine. If he could grab something quick enough and throw it into the spinning blades, maybe that could buy him some time. "If you want a job well done, you have to do it yourself." Fontaine put out what would be the sixth cigarette that morning - Jack counted them - stretching his back and then slumping back, grinning rather lewdly at the boy.

"What am I going to do with you?" Something in his tone made the boy shiver involuntarily, gripping the edge of the wooden chair tighter. He was seconds away from just making a run for it, but he urged himself to remain glued to his spot. The bot would've killed him, and as good as finally getting rid of Fontaine sounded, getting burnt to a crisp wasn't the ideal way to do so. 

He flinched slightly when the older man stood up, reaching for another cigarette hidden in the top drawer of his desk. The zippo clicked and smoke reached Jack's nostrils, earning him a tingling in the back of his throat. He tried swallowing it away, like he did the other six times, but this time it wouldn't go away. Fontaine noticed his discomfort, drawing closer towards the smaller figure, who crossed his arms in front of his chest in a defensive gesture. 

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a smoker." He taunted, letting out a stream of wispy substance towards the low ceiling. Jack grit his teeth; the bastard knew it wasn't the nicotine he was craving so much right now. Eve. It didn't bother him at first, but the symptoms were clear now. Sweat was starting to trickle down his forehead and neck and he stopped himself from tugging at his collar; he dared steal a glance upwards at the man's face, twisted in a unpleasant, malevolent expression. This man was the textbook definition of the word sleazebag, shockingly different from the Atlas persona that Jack had trusted so much; or at least was conditioned to trust. In less than an hour he had learned that everything he knew was a lie, and he was nothing else but an unwilling lab rat, an experiment. 

He hated this city and everything in it. Fontaine put out his cigarette on the back of his chair, leaving a round black mark and a slight smell of scorched wood. He grabbed Jack's shoulder suddenly, smirking when he felt the kid jump under his unwanted touch. He pointed at the bot floating above his desk with his free hand.

"I'll let you two talk." He mocked, patting his shoulder in a supposedly friendly gesture, before heading towards the exit. The stench of cigarette smoke still lingered into the room, drying the inside of Jack's mouth. The carton was inside Fontaine's desk, he saw where he had them stacked, but the bot was still active, and would attack him if he tried to move. That rat! He clenched his fists, suddenly furious at himself for letting his guard down and allowing this to happen; he had been so delighted that the German lady had managed to undo all of that insufferable doctor's work that he became way too careless. Even with his will relatively free, he wasn't untouchable, and the bruises and cuts that now adorned his body were proof of that. 

And now his newfound addiction to the substances that brought the whole Rapture to its knees was slowly but surely killing him. He pitied the splicers, at some point, but failed to see he was well on his way to become one. And it was Atlas who had encouraged him - son of a bitch knew what he was doing. He tugged at the sleeves of his sweater, fully aware of the numerous puncture marks underneath them; whoever allowed this catastrophe to happen was a sick, sadistic bastard. Even Tenenbaum, who in the end repented and tried to undo the wrongdoings she had committed, stirred a slight sentiment of disgust in his gut. He was sure he wasn't originally programmed to have such high morals, given how much of a dirty scumbag Suchong was, so at least he was proud of himself for breaking the pattern. 

A sudden feeling of claustrophobia hit him like a sledgehammer in his chest, leaving him to open and close his mouth like one of those pitiful minnows in the fisheries. There were no windows in the room, and the low ceiling felt as if it was pressing right onto the top of his head, crushing him one millimeter at a time; he forced himself to breathe in deep through his nose, wincing at the sting in the back of his throat. The itch was unbearable almost, and he clawed fruitlessly at his neck, only managing to leave broad red streaks on the pale skin. He nearly made the terrible mistake of standing up, but he stopped himself midair when the machinery that was watching him so closely let out a sharp whistle and revved the miniature engine, lights flashing yellow. 

A warning. Careful, or you get burned. He laughed at his own bad joke in an attempt to calm himself, but it only lasted for a few magical seconds. The collar of his sweater was soaked and cold around his neck, and the spine of one book on the shelf behind Fontaine's desk had the same color as what he was craving for. His eyes remained fixated on it, the rest of the room blurring around him, as the lovely shade of blue shone under his gaze. Numbness spread from his limbs to his head; was he honestly that hooked, that weak so a simple liquid, or lack of, could bring him down so quickly? What a pathetic demise. 

He didn't know how long it's been, he didn't realize he had blacked out and almost fell off his chair to an equally pathetic end by the flamethrower of a tiny robot. There was a ringing in his ears and everything was brighter than he remembered, an unnatural and almost blinding white light. The thought that he might be dead brought more joy to his mind than it should have. His eyes wouldn't focus, but a blurred mass in front of him was shaking him awake; the state of unawareness was pleasant, and he felt the absurd urge to utter 'five more minutes'.  

"Wake up now." He heard the slap before he felt it, and jerked back to reality, looking around confused. He was still there. He wasn't dead, he was still there. He fought the urge to scream at the top of his lungs in frustration, to grab Fontaine by the annoyingly crisp collar of his shirt and hit him with whatever he could get his hands on. He slumped into the man's arms instead, exhausted. 

"Didn't think you need it that badly." If he didn't know better, he would've thought the man was trying to be apologetic; he laced his fingers together to stop them from shaking. He felt Fontaine pull away from him and he almost protested, before feeling angry with himself. Did he seriously stoop so low to accept - no, desire - comfort from the very person that caused him the harm? His cheek stung where he was hit. Fontaine ordered a puppet on a string and he got one, until this doll started growing a mind of his own. The grin the man wore was now downright terrifying, towering over him and blocking most of his sight. 

"Would you kindly stand up?"

The words struck him, kicking a small portion of his brain into overdrive, but not nearly powerful enough to control his body. The rest of his mind was as clear as his current state allowed it to be. Stand up. But why would he stand up, the bot would kill him if he did. It was illogical, suicidal. 'No, I don't think I want to do that.' His conscience told him and he shook his head accordingly, watching Fontaine's bashing smirk fall from his face. He turned around sharply to hide his anger and disappointment, and over his shoulder Jack saw the bot, deactivated and laying on Fontaine's desk completely harmless. 'Son of a bitch!' The Eve deprivation weakened him severely and stripped him of any possibility and will to fight him, however. He waited for him to return from his desk; he had fished something out of the bottom drawer and had slammed it shut rather forcefully. The results weren't what he expected, but something told Jack this wasn't the only method he had considered - he must have something else up his sleeve, something equally as draining, if not more so. He was, after all, always a man with a plan. 

"Seeing as you refuse to behave yourself, you only get half of this." The blue vial in his hand was unmistakable; Jack eyed it hungrily, snapping out of his state of apathy, eager as a child being presented with the opportunity to have his favorite meal in the world. He forgot about his sore muscles for a moment, jumping out of the chair to his feet for the first time in hours - probably days, he had lost track of time - and his unstable knees gave out immediately, sending him to the ground in a trembling heap. He cursed under his breath and heard Fontaine let out a short laugh that resembled a bark. 'Bark like a cocker spaniel'; he clenched his jaw until it ached as the man bent over and grabbed his left arm, pulling his sleeve up rather forcefully. The sight of tiny circular wounds and burst blood vessels sent a wave of nausea up his throat; he looked away when the needle pierced his skin, bright blue liquid blending into the blood and relieving the dull ache in his bones. He screwed his eyes shut until multicolored shapes began dancing on the back of his eyelids; the vial was yanked away from the inside of his elbow before it emptied. Jack watched mesmerized as the substance trickled down his forearm from the puncture wound, mixed with droplets of blood. He brought his skin to his mouth and licked it clean slowly, making the older man's unpleasant smirk grow; it was just enough that it would keep him conscious, but not help him regain his strength.

The inside of his mouth had dried up and his tongue stuck to the roof, clammy with the thick mixture he had licked off his arm. Now that his thirst for Eve had been satisfied - barely - he was starting to realise he hadn't had a sip of water in hours either, and his stomach was starting to growl rather loudly. He cradled his midsection in an effort to mask the sound, but Fontaine already heard, letting out another short laugh. It was futile to believe that, if he asked, he would give him what he wanted, but Jack could still hope - the man wanted him weakened, not dead.

"You're not getting anything else." He shattered his hopes before he could even ask, while picking up the security bot from his desk. For a brief moment, Jack was certain he was going to reactivate it and have him pinned to his seat once again, but he was wrong. Fontaine left him without another word, unrestrained and unsupervised, only locking the main door behind him. Still sprawled on the hardwood floor, Jack didn't dare move for a few long minutes, waiting for something to happen; his eyes lingered on the camera high up on a wall, in the corner, but it appeared to be deactivated as well, void of any lights that could indicate that someone was watching. 

He struggled to push himself off the floor, after he managed to convince himself that nothing would shoot him if he did. The floor suddenly seemed to tilt beneath his feet and he tried to grab onto air, stepping backwards and knocking over the chair. He felt as if he was plummeting towards the Atlantic along with the plane for a second time. What would have happened if he hadn't survived the crash? What would've Fontaine done if his trump card had drowned along with the other passengers on that cursed flight? The comparison to a dog was more accurate than he wanted to admit - he had barked and bitten at his command, regardless of how many people got hurt, or killed, a mindless tool of destruction.

Fontaine was going to pay. He regretted that the Big Daddy got to Suchong before he did, but the big fish was all his to gut. 

After other God knows how many hours, his vengeance filled fantasies started to die out, wilted. His throat was dry and it hurt when he swallowed; what an ironic fate, to die of thirst on the bottom of the ocean. His stomach had probably started eating through itself by now; he dragged himself to the desk and rummaged through the drawers, but nothing edible, or drinkable, could be found. The carton of cigarettes was also gone; he cried out in frustration and slammed his fist weakly into the wooden surface. That insufferable swine was hell bent on destroying him; he wouldn't give him that satisfaction. 

He jumped when the lock rattled and the door creaked open - he pushed himself away from the desk, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He didn't want Fontaine to believe that he was getting to him, that his tortuous methods were somehow working. He would kill for sip of water and a pep bar right now. 

He eyed the keys in Fontaine's hands, more of them than he usually had, curiously. The only other locked thing in the room was the door to the cabinet where Fontaine stacked his weapons, a few first aid kits and a hack tool; it clicked open, and for a second Jack was convinced that the other man was going to try and make him shoot himself with his own gun. When he turned around, however, it wasn't what he expected - Fontaine was playing with his trusted wrench, throwing it from one hand to the other, eyes never leaving Jack's confused visage. 

"Move." Fontaine motioned towards the main door with his head, waiting for a reaction from the younger man, who instead stood frozen behind the desk, an amalgam of possibilities running through his head, one grimmer than the other. He knew Fontaine wasn't above bashing his head in with the piece of metal, and he suspected that's why he was taking him out of his office. So the floors won't be stained. He tried his best to remain calm and think positive; the man still hadn't given up on his ambition to subdue him. It was laughable, that all of his hopes resumed to Fontaine still needing him alive and not otherwise, but it was all he got to keep him relatively sane. 

"I ain't got all day, kid, move." His drawl was getting an annoyed tinge and he decided it would be best for him if he didn't keep him waiting for too long. As soon as he was within reach, Fontaine grabbed his arm harshly and dragged him out of the room that's been his prison for so many hours - days? - and across a large hall paved with the same wooden boards as the office he just left, without another word. He was grateful somehow that the man was supporting him, his legs seemed to have forgotten how to properly move one in front of the other, knees weaker than cotton. Cotton candy; he closed his eyes and imagined how the soft, sugary texture melts on his tongue. God, he was so hungry. 

When Fontaine shoved him roughly, he couldn't keep his balance anymore and fell to a heap on a tiled floor, wincing at the hollow sound; the view that unraveled in front of his eyes silenced the grunt of pain. An enormous glass wall behind which the Atlantic slept peacefully and bright lights on top of tall buildings still shone with fallen pride; Rapture, in all its splendor, was so lavishly exposing itself, and Jack never thought he would get to hate something so beautiful. He wouldn't exist without this marvelous piece of human depravity - it was, in a way, the closest thing to a home, though it never felt like one. 

It took him a while to register that Fontaine was trying to hand him something, poking him in the shoulder with it; he gripped at it and knew without looking that it was his wrench, still warm from the older man's hand. A wave of disgust washed him over and he almost dropped the tool, but Fontaine spoke and emptied his mind of his repulsion. 

"You thirsty?" He drawled his worlds even worse than before, and Jack wasn't sure it was a bad or a good sign; the slow tone was hypnotic and heavy on his ears and eyelids. He tried licking his lips but his mouth was too dry; fish batted their fins outside that miserable tank, an aquarium for humans,teasing him. Water. Masses of water.

"Break the glass."

His fingers twitched around the wrench. Masses of salty, dirty water; undrinkable water, only good for drowning in it. The glass would not break from the pitiful swing of a man on the brink of death; _but I could try_ , said a small voice in the back of his manufactured brain, before he shushed it viciously, replacing it with chants of denial. His vision blurred from swinging his head left and right, anger growing with every movement, aimed directly at the man behind him, who watched him breathlessly, and so far didn't like what he saw. Damn liar! All that water beyond the glass couldn't wash all the blood on his hands. He was the one responsible. He was the one at fault for everything horrible that has ever happened to him, to that city, to all those innocent men, women and children. 

He didn't recall when he managed to stand up on his feet, or how he found the strength to do so, but suddenly Fontaine was in front of him, seething with anger himself. It wasn't working. Jack pulled his arm back, ready to strike and hoping to connect at least once; the wrench smashed into Fontaine's shoulder, earning a howl of pain Jack drank in satisfied. It was short lived however - the punch to his gut blinded him for a concerningly long amount of time, leaving him to gasp and cough in a desperated effort to bring air back to his void lungs. Fontaine was swearing disgustingly, though the words went through him like sand through a sieve. He fell without much resistance on his back on the icy floor, with the weight of another body on top of him, way too heavy and too warm. He thrashed, fear starting to settle in at the foreign sensation, but Fontaine immobilized him. His face was twisted with fury and something much more sinister.

"I'm sick of this." The tone was strange, something he hadn't heard before. He vaguely wondered if that was his real voice. Could Frank Fontaine be another character that he was so devoutly playing? Though what kind of a man hides behind such a vile mask? "I know what will make you break like china in a grinder." He reverted back to his unnerving drawl, as if he caught himself and his facade slipping. Absolutely nothing was real about this man, this walking fraud, that was keen on dragging everyone down with him back into the hellhole he crawled out of. His large hand encircled both his wrists and slammed them above his head.

"You know, the Kraut made me do this to her once or twice." He squeezed his wrists together tighter, drinking in the panicked expression on Jack's face. "Never really enjoyed that with her, but you, you're a different story, 'boyo'." He laughed and the boy felt sick to his stomach, Atlas' accent once again singing into his ear. A voice which had once instilled him trust, until he found it to be a cruel trick. It was unmistakable, what Fontaine was about to do to him, hard already against his thigh. A tiredness took over his entire body, synonymous to a loss of his will to fight the man. He winced when the cold air hit his bare skin, Fontaine's hands burning him like red hot coals. The distinctive sound of a zipper being pulled down was what kicked him out of his state of apathy. He cried, yelled, drummed his fists weakly into the man's shoulders as he pushed as far as he could into him, rocking him with a steady rhythm. He counted out loud the cracks on the marble ceiling to shut out the excruciating pain, until the man slapped him viciously and ordered him to look him in the eyes. Malevolent azure eyes, darkened with the immense pleasure he took into tormenting him. Violating him. He swallowed around the knot in his throat as Atlas' voice moaned obscenities in his ear, making his stomach turn. 

When he was done, he threw him back in the office without another word. 

He returned sooner than he had planned, eager to see the results of his horrendous treatment towards him. When he opened the door, he froze; the object the boy was holding pointed at his own temple was unmistakably a gun. But how? He cursed under his breath when he saw the cabinet door wide open; he forgot to lock it when he took the wrench. The boy looked terrible, tear streaks running down his dirty face, finger shaking uncontrollably on the trigger. Shattered. The barrel was glued to his own head, instead of aimed at his captor. His tormentor. He was desperate enough to forget about his promise to skin Fontaine alive and then throw him into the ocean for the sharks to eat. Broken enough to splatter his brains on the walls. He didn't dare move another inch, eyes never leaving the pistol, as if he was afraid of startling him. 

"Put. The gun. Down. Would you kindly." 

He spoke slowly, half expecting the loud bang. It didn't happen. The boy let the gun fall from his hands onto the floor, looking at him with empty eyes. Obedient eyes; behind them, nothing. The smirk on Fontaine's face widened; his puppy was back, ready to bark the way he dictated, finally. 


End file.
